


The Bird and the Bat: Gotham Case Files

by Cursedkaze



Series: The Bat and the Bird 'Verse [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Swap AU, Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Circus Bruce AU, Gen, Sidekicks came first AU, Young Bruce Wayne, adoption au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cursedkaze/pseuds/Cursedkaze
Summary: Bruce is back in Gotham, he just wishes it could be on better terms. Part of him has always known he would end up back here, something about the city got under your skin and into your blood, but he isn't returning as the hero he knows the city needs. The Court of Owls have made it personal and he's returning as a shadow in the night to bring them to justice.Direct Sequel to the Bird and the Bat, read that one first.





	1. Case #0001: Red Hoods (Part One)

Bruce takes his favorite seat by the window as Dick spreads the casefiles out on the old mahogany table in the library.

It’s strange, even though he’s visited here every year since his orphaning the room seems…off. He keeps expecting it to be the same size as he was when he was little, as if the bookshelves would grow with him. It feels strange to just be able to reach _up_ and touch the spines of the books that had been out of reach only ten years ago. Nothing else has changed about the room, Alfred has kept the place perfectly preserved. Bruce smiles a wry smile. He feels like at any minute his father might walk in and ask who this tall stranger in his house was.

Tall stranger _s_ perhaps. Would the Thomas Wayne of back then even recognize him now? He had changed while his perception of his father had remained the same; preserved like the books on the shelves, like the smell of the air...

They’re paper files, couldn’t be hacked as Dick argued, which felt like a jab at him even if he hadn’t meant it. They’d be copied and backed up in the Justice League supercomputer anyway, but Dick still preferred something he could physically handle to an image on a screen. The files are familiar to Bruce as they splay across the dark wood.

They’re all cases to do with the Court of Owls; some thick folders of years of subterfuge before they found out the Owls were involved, some barely more than a single sheet of paper covering a mysterious murder that they only thought was possibly the work of a Talon. Even all the files in front of them amount to so little when dealing with a foe like the Court of Owls…

“Alright,” Dick says. “This is your case too, where do you want to start.”

Bruce frowns and looks at the case files.

“The Three M’s; Motive, Method and Money.” He recites from memory as if this was a lesson in the League of Shadows. Ever since they’d been forced into competition with the Question they had to learn how to run a proper investigation _fast._ “Firstly, what’s the Motive behind the attack? We know the Court hates us but why destroy their Talon recruits? Secondly, the Method. Why use Talons outside of Gotham when they could use other assassins? Thirdly, the Money. What did they want to gain, and have they gained it?”

“That’s my boy.” Dick says proudly.

“Which means we’ve got a fourth M.” Bruce says. “A Mystery.”

“Indeed we do.” Dick sighs as he looks over the piled files. “I’m not expecting to get this solved any time soon; let’s start by recapping in reverse chronological order, maybe something will jump out at us.”

It doesn’t.

Together they spend hours going over the files, even the ones that they can’t prove are related to the Owls and find no new connection between them. The sunlight outside strengthens then begins to fade as night looms.

It’s a uniquely frustrating kind of bitterness, having the pieces of the puzzle in your hand and being unable to fit them together. There was something they were missing, something important that has changed that has altered the behavioral patterns of the Court; _something_ has caused them to attack the Circus, but Bruce doesn’t know what.

It isn’t revenge, there was no doubting that the Court was indeed that petty, but they would have sent the Talons after him and Dick personally if it was their betrayal that angered them. An ambush by all the Talons at the Circus would have seen at least one of them dead, Bruce knew. Why then divide your forces by attacking the whole Circus, allowing them to be defeated?

The image of the Owl, Felix Harmon, the Gotham Butcher, flashes across Bruce’s inner eye. He still remembers what it felt like to have the Talon’s brain matter dripping from his fists. The Bat had been blinded by fear and rage, it had silenced the thinking parts of him and had thought violence the only solution. Damian was right, against more than a single opponent he would have died. He’d exhaust himself punching before the Talon stopped healing. His brain latches onto the familiar memory like a leech, hunting for a way to fit it into the pattern. The Unworthy, Harmon had been called, the Human Landmine. A disgraced Talon. Something to dig into there; he asks Dick exactly how a Talon became disgraced and how many of them there were.

“All of them.” Dick replies absentmindedly, then realize he’s being confusing. “All the Talons we recovered were disgraced, though Felix Harmon was the most dramatically disgraced for killing Court Members. They were disposable tools.”

“Maybe.” Bruce says.

Dick arches an eyebrow.

“Got a lead?” He asks.

“The egg of one.” Bruce uses a circus phrase.

“Might as well sit on that egg, I’ve been chasing my tail for the past hour.” Dick sighs and throws the files down into the pile. “How’s your case files looking?”

Bruce picks up the files Barbara had given him to start with and gives them a proper look over. Near immediately a frown wrinkles his forehead.

“We should call Jason.” He says solemnly.

Dick winces; their argument hadn’t been so long ago. If you didn’t give Jason enough time to cool down after a fight he took it as an attack.

“Maybe not.” He tries to put it tactfully.

Bruce’s frown deepens.

“He needs to see this.” He insists. “He has a right to.”

“What?” Dick asks.

Bruce tosses him the file.

“The photo, top right corner, on the wall in the back, over the garbage cans.” He clarifies as Dick opens the file and looks it over.

“Oh no.” Dick says as soon as he sees it and tosses the file back on the pile. “Oh _no._ ”

He flops down in the chair with a heartfelt groan and stares at the ceiling.

“What is _wrong_ with your people?” He asks.

“My people?” Bruce raises an eyebrow with an amused smirk.

“Your city, your people.” Dick replies and pinches the bridge of his nose.

On the alleyway in the photograph, by the window that had been broken is a spray-painted tag that hasn’t been used in a long time. It’s still fresh enough for the paint to run. One word, ‘Hoodz’ with a z, in bright red paint.

They were calling themselves the Red Hoods.

A goddamn _Gotham Street Gang_ were calling themselves the Red Hoods.

How did they think this could possibly end for them? Jason still had enemies, a testament to his methods during his time as Red Hood, and none of them would flinch at killing children for petty revenge. If the _rest_ of Gotham found out they were dragging the name of their beloved martyr in the mud they’d string them up themselves. They’d chosen to honor Jason’s legacy by picking a fight with everyone and, while Jason made many mistakes, he’d still stood for _something_. He’d made himself the thin, red line in the sand and fought the world.

There was a difference. Gods, there was a _difference_.

“Call him.” Dick sighs. “He has a right to know and if he finds out we didn’t…Just call him.”

Bruce gives him a look that makes it clear he knows something is going on and he doesn’t like it. Dick would feel guiltier if Bruce hadn’t learned the look from him.

Jason would know about the gang already; they must have sprung up since he was last in Gotham or the problem would have already been taken care of. He wouldn’t know the GCPD was involved though, he still didn’t run in those circles.

Traveler’s _tongue_ , that might be why he was in Gotham in the first place! It must have been hard hearing that the name you dragged out of the gutter with you had been taken back by it. That would make anyone question what legacy they had left…

Damn it, this was exactly the kind of thing that made heroes stay out of Gotham.

This city was like a nest of snakes, as soon as you put your hand in to take care of one of them another three sunk their fangs into you. It’s a guilty feeling but Dick is glad to put the Court of Owls out of his thoughts for one damn second to hate something else. He regretted the argument, but he hadn’t regretted anything he’d said to Jason, even knowing about these new Red Hoods. As much as Jason resented it, his resurrection had left a mark. He wasn’t the same angry teenager he’d been when Dick had kept him from joining the League.

As much as he hated admitting it Jason was still…useful. He’d found a niche between the Leagues and the Cops. He’d also made it clear he wasn’t going to be Gotham’s hero again. There’s only so many times you could stick your hand in a snake nest before you started doubting it was worth it…

Bruce returns and Dick tries to force himself to look less exhausted than he is for his sake.

“How did it go?” He asks him, already knowing what the answer would be.

“He’s in Gotham already, so I invited him to dinner.” Bruce says and sits down.

It’s not the answer Dick was expecting.

“Bruce, _ask_ me before inviting people to dinner.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose against a growing headache.

“Why?” Bruce snorts. “You’re not cooking, and I already asked Alfred.”

“That’s not why you have to ask.” Dick sighs.

“I own the house.” Bruce replies. “Technically you’re a guest here.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.” Dick folds his arms. “Why did you actually invite Jason?”

“I like Jason.” Bruce replies honestly. “He lets me punch people.”

He gives Dick a calculating look.

“Do you not think we can trust him?” He asks quietly.

“With the case, definitely. With being in a fancy house and not wrecking anything? Not as much.” Dick groans.

Bruce looks around the room with a frown.

“It’s just a place, and this is just stuff.” He says dismissively of furniture that’s older than most people and worth enough to buy a house by itself. “Besides if he breaks anything Alfred is going to be very sarcastic. He might even use irony.”

Dick grimaces at the mental image. The Wayne Family butler had a way of raising an eyebrow that made him feel like a kid again and not in a good way. He’s not sure Jason can feel shame anymore, but Alfred’s glare would sure test that assumption.

Whatever Alfred ends up cooking Dick is going to be eating crow…

Bruce is wondering how Dick managed to get in a fight with Jason in the short time since he’d last seen him. Dick only acts _this_ shifty when he’s trying to cover up that he’s made a mistake. It’s kind of funny how bad he is at covering it up. At least that part of Dick is still the same.

Both Jason and Dick had been Gotham heroes before, so Bruce supposes it was a territorial dispute. The Justice League hadn’t been as involved with Gotham as it had other cities so there wasn’t the infrastructure there that there was elsewhere. If you tried treating Gotham like Metropolis or Coast City you had the life expectancy of a kamikaze fruit fly in hell.  They’d agreed that for safety’s sake though he was back in Gotham it would be a few weeks before Bruce Wayne was back just so no-one made the connection. It was better for morale for him to be back as a hero before he was made a sideshow at the media circus. He relaxes, imagining that somehow the old house is welcoming them home. The manor had been his family’s castle for years; it would protect them too. For the first time since the circus burned Bruce feels safe somewhere. The Bat settles into a familiar Roost.

Bruce spent most of his time so far familiarizing himself with the Oracle System. With as much good as Barbara had done as a hero, and all the good she was doing right now reforming the Police Department, it was the Oracle System that helped heroes the most. Without it life in Gotham would be much worse.

Bruce was aware he had to prove himself.

Right now Dick was protecting him from the rest of the League, but Dick would protect him from everything no matter what he did, and the Justice League knew it too. He’d done things and knew things that would have had him in prison if it wasn’t for Dick.

He had lied. He had stolen. He had killed. There was a word for someone who did those things.

It wasn’t Hero.

Dick’s faith in him had bought him a stay of execution, it wasn’t a pardon. Like Jason he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to prove he wasn’t who he used to be. Too many villains had started off as heroes, he hadn’t even been that, just a stupid kid who thought he knew how the world works.

No, he hadn’t been thinking about anything, he’d been a frustrated animal filled with rage and bile and hate. He’d been willing to trade his life, everything he _was_ , for revenge.

He’d really thought no-one would come.

Bruce was so _sure_ that when they saw the files, all their secrets laid bare, his _plans_ for stopping them if they got in his way, they would let him die. It was one of the reasons he had left it with Dick, so they would see, so they wouldn’t come after him, so they wouldn’t _mourn_ him. He didn’t think they would see it all and still choose to _save_ him. He still doesn’t think he deserves it.

Bruce takes a deep breath and his eyes harden.

He’s going to _make_ himself someone worth being saved. The Bruce that had only cared about revenge, about that dark night in the alleyway, had died with Joe Chill in the labyrinth of the Owls. He was something new that lived in the same skin, that had grown from that Bruce’s death like a graveyard oak sprouts from a corpse. Something stronger, something better, that would earn the second chance he’d been given.

He does feel a little bad for putting Dick into this situation, but when he asked Jason to come look at the case Jason couldn’t quite hide the happiness in his voice when he said if nothing else came up he might swing by. Bruce couldn’t cancel now, it would be like kicking a puppy.

Of everyone he’d betrayed by going to the Owls he knew betraying Jason was going to hurt the most. When the drug seeped into his system and the rage grew, he knew Jason would put down the rabid beast he was becoming. Dick loved him too much, but Jason had hunted too many monsters with human faces to let one live. Bruce still trusted him to pull the trigger if he became one of them.

Jason wasn’t technically a hero after all. He was a vigilante and the reason why the League officially disapproved of them. Bruce hadn’t seen Jason since he was dragged out of the labyrinth and he was a due a long delayed asskicking for it. Surprisingly he isn’t dreading it as much as he should.

Bruce had made one case his obsession for so long it had consumed his every thought and poisoned him against the world. Now that case was finished he found himself reaching for the Court of Owls to replace that obsession and that was dangerous. It would be easy to fall into the familiar patterns of thought, but if he did he would be lost. He would end up just another villain driven by vengeance, flitting from cause to cause for his own selfish vindication. He’d end up justifying it, telling himself that everything he did was for a greater good, and he’d become a greater monster than he’d been in the labyrinth.

It was an easy trap to fall into in Gotham; he couldn’t view the Court of Owls as existing in isolation. Gotham wasn’t a city as much as an ecosystem. Every part of it effected every other part, like cogs in a murderous machine. If he was going to save this city it would take more than just destroying the Court of Owls. He had to fix this broken system. He had to tear the corruption out by the roots.

If he’s going to do it he’ll need friends. That meant putting himself out there and _trusting_ people for once. He flicks a candy cigarette into his mouth. It’s a stupid piece of street theatre but it gives him something to do with his hands while he waits. He chews on the candy stick to displace his desire to chew on his cheek until it bled. He hated inaction.

Bruce lets his gaze fall on the horizon. The sun is setting in Gotham, sending a last golden wave over the rooftops before the light is picked up and captured in the glowing windows of the skyscrapers. As if by arcane alchemy the city seems to wake up under moonlight. He wants to be out _there,_ where things were happening. He wants to be running the rooftops, busting heads, interrogating people, gathering evidence and information.

He just needs that one lead that would bust this case open…

Bruce flips the candy stick into his mouth and demolishes it in a couple of chews when he sees the headlight of the motorcycle flicker into view at the end of the driveway.

This week’s model was a matte black thing of dark steel and already covered in enough ash and mud it’s hard to tell how functional the machine is underneath it. Jason went through bikes like popcorn, given the choice between his vehicle and someone’s life he’d sacrifice the bike, and his business meant he made that choice often. There’s blood still drying on the knuckles of the rider’s gloves. Jason must have come here straight from work. Bruce can tell by the way he’s got his shoulders squared he’s pissed off Gotham’s filth had bled on his good clothes.

Time to pay the piper.

“Jason!” Bruce calls out and scrambles to meet him.

“Hey little soldier.” Jason wraps one arm around his shoulder in an awkward half hug. “Hell of an internship you got Kid. Everyone else gets some training before they get thrown in the deep end.”

Jason ruffles Bruce’s hair. Bruce endures it stoically.

“How have you been?” Bruce asks.

“A guy tried to mug me in a parking lot, but he had a cool knife so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.” Jason shrugs with one shoulder. “Here, moving in present.” He reaches into a pocket of his jacket and tosses him the knife. Bruce catches it and flicks the blade free. It’s clip-point blade with a faint serration. The blade bears the distinctive lighter ripples of imitation Damascus steel.

“Neat.” Bruce says appreciatively.

“After so many times you start to appreciate some novelty.” Jason stretches. “Is the killjoy home?”

“I am, and I don’t appreciate you giving stolen property to my son.” Dick adds from the top of the stairs as he leans against the doorframe.

“Like a mugger is going to tell the police a bad man took his special knife.” Jason snorts. “At least my way teaches them a lesson.”

He glares defiantly up at Dick who sighs and lets it go.

“How have neither of us fought someone called Killjoy yet?” Dick asks instead.

Jason concedes with a grin.

“Yeah, I’ve punched enough people who claimed killing is their source of joy, you’d think it would be a no-brainer.” He adds.

“Maybe someone else called dibs.” Bruce suggests. “I know the Central City Rogues do that.”

Jason shakes his head and grins.

“Gods, those guys are weird even for villains.”

There’s the sound of a throat being disapprovingly cleared.

“Master Dick, Master Bruce it is _excessively_ bad manners to gossip with guests on the doorstep.” Alfred says pointedly to vague apologetic mumbling from them both. He smiles more genuinely. “Do come in Master Jason. Dinner will be served shortly.”

Jason chances an uncertain grin, or at least his lip raises on one side and shows some teeth. He looks like his face is _far_ too used to snarling.

“Sorry about the blood.” He says sheepishly.

“Well, these things happen.” Alfred replies in a tone so reassuring it takes a moment before Jason considers the implications.

His grin becomes something more genuine and he steps inside.

Dinner is delicious, as always. Bruce is surprised to find he’s hungry as soon as he smells the food. It’s hard to keep himself from wolfing it down. Dick had once said he ate like a bird, but that bird was a seagull, then he’d asked Bruce to try chewing.

To Dick’s poorly-hidden surprise Jason’s table manners are impeccable and he even knows exactly what Alfred had made. The Wayne Family butler is clearly delighted to serve someone with a ‘sophisticated palate’ as he puts it. Jason doesn’t mention Bruce gave him the menu beforehand, so he could practice the French, but he does give Bruce a knowing wink across the table.

Despite Bruce being nearly buzzing to talk about the case they keep the conversation off work and profanity free. It leaves them casting around a bit for conversation topics but honestly, after being swept up in extreme events for so long they’d become the new normal, it was nice to talk without lives hanging in the balance. Jason seems to agree with him, although Dick was still so out of it he wouldn’t have noticed if he was eating his own hand.  Otherwise Bruce is sure he’d have strong opinions on the new Star Wars movies, even though none of them had seen them yet. Bruce finds himself becoming painfully aware of how rare this was for Jason. Not just being invited to the Manor but getting to sit down at the same table with friends and have a meal together.

Legally, Jason had barely been a person before he died. Afterwards, there’d been no-one who mourned him who wasn’t aware of his secret identity. The Red Hood had been his life in more ways than one. When he’d been revived he’d found his legacy had outlived him and he’d been adrift without it. He was still hunting for the reason for his resurrection.

Traveler’s Tongue, Bruce had missed Jason. Jason was his most reliable ally, he’d been on his side since Bruce was a child, seemingly always there for him when it felt like the world was against him. He trusted Jason more than anyone. He’s sure if anyone would really _understand_ why he’d gone to the Owls it would be him. It had been a Deal with the Devil, made out of frustration and despair and a genuine belief he could double-cross the criminal organization for power and get away with it.

After dessert is done and the dishes have been cleared away, Bruce gives Jason a meaningful look across the table. Jason acknowledges it with a half-nod and gets up from the table.

“This seems like a Gotham thing, I’ll leave you boys to it.” Dick says as he gets up to leave.

He’s already got dark rings under his eyes. Bruce knows he hasn’t been sleeping; the nightmares of flames have taken over both of their dreams. He still found himself jolting awake around twice a night, the remembered flames still bright in his vision and a desperate cry of warning frozen in his throat. It must be so much worse for Dick.

“Right. Thank you for the meal.” The former Gotham vigilante inclines his head as he gets up from the table.

“It was a pleasure to cook for an audience who _appreciates_ the culinary arts.” Alfred says with a small fond smile. “I fear Master Dick wouldn’t notice if I served a sautéed brick, and Master Bruce would eat a shoe if I put it in front of him.” 

“Alfred!” Bruce protests and Jason chuckles.

“Oh hush, you can protest when you can tell the difference between breakfast and dinner without looking out a window.” Alfred tells him as he gathers the dishes.

Bruce makes a vague grumbling sound under his breath, aware Alfred’s right. Jason chuckles and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You mentioned a case?” He says.

Bruce nods and the room seems to darken as he tries to find a delicate way to explain things. He’s no public speaker, he doesn’t know how to break the news about the street gang without hurting Jason’s feelings. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt Jason’s feelings, but he doesn’t know how to make the news _not_ hurt.

The old grandfather clock ticks on through his awkward stammering explanation.

Jason’s face goes unreadably blank, but Bruce sees the tension building in his shoulders while Bruce struggles to find the right words.

He prays he isn’t accidentally siccing an angry Jason on a nearly harmless street gang; they may be criminals but that hadn’t done anything bad enough to earn Jason’s wrath, unless you counted picking a stupid name as a mortal sin. He doesn’t think Jason would _kill_ them over it, but there were fates worse than death…

Jason sighs and sweeps a hand through his hair.

“This is sounding like a ‘you’ kinda problem buddy.” He says. “You’re Gotham’s babysitter now, right?”

It isn’t the answer Bruce wants, and it must show on his face because Jason sighs.

“Look, I’m going to tell you what I told Tim when he first asked me to train him, I was never trying to be a hero. After Dick kicked me out of the Circus…”

“You got kicked out of the Circus?” Bruce asks in alarm. “ _Our_ circus?”

“The Court was about to make me their new Talon, but I didn’t know that.” Jason explains. “All I knew was there was one thing I was good at and people loved me for it, then Golden Boy shows up and is not only effortlessly _better_ than me at it, but he says I can’t do it ever again and everyone loves him more. So I ran away from the circus, only time I’ve heard of anyone doing _that._ ”

Jason snorts.

“I thought, hey, if the closest thing I ever had to a family doesn’t want me anymore, I might as well die achieving _something_ and went to take down the biggest asshole I knew. Never figured it would work, figured the best I could do was put a bit of fear in him while I was bleeding out.”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, it seems obvious in hindsight that all those little ‘tricks’ I’d been learning were training for this, but at the time I just thought I was lucky I managed to take the guy out.”

He gives Bruce a solemn look.

“I grew up poor, Bruce, the Red Hood was a big name where I was from. The King of Crooks, never got caught, never lost a fight, fucking bragged about being untouchable, right up ‘til I beat his ass in front of all his men and stole all his shit, even the name. After that I figured I’d just keep going, I knew where all the assholes were that never seemed to get what they deserved. I started punching above my weight, figured either I was gonna die or Gotham would run out of assholes. Before either happened people started callin’ me a hero. I never planned on stopping crime in Gotham or some grand goal like that, I never planned on surviving you see. I just wanted to take my pain and give as much of it as I could back. I didn’t do it because it was right, or because I wanted to help people, I just wanted to make them _hurt,_ and if these bozos are anything like I was back then that’s what they want too.”

Jason smiles sadly.

“Now is that a shitty backstory or what?” He mutters under his breath. “I didn’t realize how fucked I was until Tim found me of course, saying I needed someone to keep me grounded, and he was right. I was more of a mobile disaster zone then than I am now and if kids like Timmy were looking up to me I had to be a better role model for them.”

He waves Bruce closer.

“Walk with me. I want to show you something I’ve been working on.” Even though it’s quiet, he’s still giving an order like he expects it to be obeyed.

Bruce follows him to the bike. There’s a carrier on the back, a solid metal box welded onto the frame. Jason unlocks it and gives the rough metal box a thump to get it to open. It’s made of four sheets of flat metal bolted together and the lid doesn’t quite fit right. It’s been slapped together in a hurry by the look of it. Inside is something that looks more military than a motorcycle helmet, resting on a belt of grenades.

“Here.” Jason hands him the helmet. “What do you think?”

Bruce looks it over. It’s well-constructed, in a matte gunmetal grey, with a snub nose and two faint points resembling ears, in a simplistic geometric design. He notes the design aesthetic at the same time he notes the technology built into it; communicators, gas mask, a voice modulator, scramblers, a remote detonator…

“A wolf.” He says out loud.

“Yeah.” Jason grins and takes the helmet back. He puts it on. “Little Red Hood and the Big Bad Wolf.” He says with the voice modulator giving his voice an eerie bass rumble. The triangular eyes _glow_.

“That’s terrible.” Bruce laughs. “It’s _perfect_.”

“Ya think?” Jason asks, leaning against the wall. “I figured it was about time I got into the hero game for real this time. No more clinging to the past. New face, new me.”

He scratches at the side of the mask and manages to tilt it enough to make a black metal wolf head look sheepish.

“Don’t tell Dick but his pep talk helped me get some things straight.” He confesses. “I’m doing this for me this time. No more clinging to the past. If those idiots want the name, they can have it. It wasn’t mine first anyway, and I doubt _they’ll_ be the last. It’s just a name. It’s not _me,_ not any part that counts anyway.”

“I take it you’re not sticking around to help then.” Bruce frowns.

“Sorry bud, you’re gonna have to prove you can handle things yourself.” Jason chuckles. “'Sides I'm not going to get between Dick and his kid when he's like this. Maybe ask Tim for help if you’re worried, he’s got all the files from my Red Hood days, he can hook you up. Pattern analysis is kinda his _thing._ ”

“Alright.” Bruce sets his jaw stubbornly, defying the implication that he can’t handle things himself. The hard look in his eyes softens a bit as he kicks at the ground. “Just thought it would be cool to have a team-up while you’re in town.” He mutters under his breath.

An amused laugh filters through the voice changer.

“Another time maybe.” Jason says and ruffles his hair. “When you’ve got something worth a Wolf hunt. Until then take care of yourself and don’t do anything too stupid, okay buddy?”

“I make no promises.” Bruce says proudly.

“I mean it.” Jason says sternly, tilting the wolf mask forward enough for the glowing eyes to look menacing. “Take care of yourself.” He orders, the voice changer giving an unnatural dark edge to his voice.

Damn, that was cool.

“I will if you do.” Bruce calls back with a challenge and Jason bites back a curse.

“Why you sneaky little…Fine, it’s a pact.” He says, gripping Bruce’s hand briefly in a circus bargain. “Good luck little soldier. You’re going to need it.” Jason tells him and kicks the stand out from the bike as he starts it.

“Hey Dickie bird!” Jason calls out to him.

Dick, who has been watching from the doorway close enough to keep an eye on them but not near enough to read lips, straightens up. He looks exhausted. Jason squares his shoulders defensively then forces himself to relax. He’s avoiding eye contact, but so is Dick, so they look like guilty children.

“I wanted to apologize.” Jason says sheepishly. “For last night. I wasn’t angry at you, more of angry in your vicinity.”

He flexes fingers unsure if they want to be fists.

“It...builds up. Some days I think it’s gone for good then it all comes out at once.”

Dick sighs.

“I don’t blame you for being angry Jay.” He says softly. “You’ve been through a lot of shit.”

“No, let me apologize, it’s good for my mental health.” Jason says back. “All I’m saying is I shouldn’t take it out on you just because the world isn’t fair. We _all_ made stupid decisions when we were young.”

He takes a deep breath, his voice growing more uncertain as he struggles to arrange words around what he wants to say.

“It…It’s not your fault. What happened. To…both of us?” He says uncertainly, then shrugs.

He forces his fingers to uncurl and grabs the helmet to avoid having to see Dick’s face.

“There, I’ve said my bit. Good luck with the idiot roundup and call me when it’s time to shoot some owl bastards. I’ve got my own leads I’m following, I’ll keep you posted.” He pulls on his motorcycle helmet and gives Dick a small nod. He turns back to Bruce. “If you need anything, guns, explosives, someone to bitch to about birdboy, you got my number.”

“Same Jay, same.” Bruce smiles.

They fist bump, Jason makes a vague probably obscene gesture over his shoulder and guns it down the driveway. The motorcycle roars like a trapped animal as it leaves the yard and becomes a streak of shadow against the skyline.

“That could have gone much worse.” Bruce says mildly as Dick walks up to him.

Dick puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Aww Baby Bat is disappointed.” He says in his usual light-hearted teasing way. It sounds thinner that it should, like he’s just going through the motions.

Traveler’s tongue, Dick is so tired. It’s clear in every word he says, in how he stands, in how he moves. He’s tired like he was after he’d come back from a big fight and immediately had to do a show, if he’d done that for a week without sleep. Bruce doesn’t know if Dick was ever going to get his energy back.

He knows that Dick’s been hurt before, that Dick lost his parents too, the truth of what happened to Barbara. He also knows that there are some wounds too deep to heal, and that the more you’d been hurt the deeper the next loss cut. Dick was wounded, deeply wounded, in his soul where Bruce didn’t know how to help him heal. Whenever Bruce looks at him he feels a dagger of guilt drive itself deeper into his heart.

He feels guilty for not suffering as much as Dick, for getting over it so easily compared to his adopted father even though they’d been his family too. It was his fault the Talon’s attacked the Circus. If he hadn’t come back, if he’d stayed with the League of Shadows, they would still be alive.

It was all his fault. They’d died because of him; it was as bad as him killing them himself.

He was the one who had hurt his family this time.

He was the one who does this to Dick…

The knowledge hurts low in his chest like a stab wound.

“Come on.” Dick’s hand rests on his shoulder.

“We’ve got work to do.”

Bruce sighs. As much as he wants to be out there _now_ busting heads they had to be subtle about this. He knows he could identify the Owls in their civilian identities, but if they jump straight to the assault some might get away and if they’re not careful in the approach the Owls could destroy the evidence.

Tomorrow their prisoner arrives.

Dick wouldn’t tell him much about the man who raised him as an assassin and Bruce wouldn’t force him to. He’d seen how hurt Dick was to see the man with his throat slit open, a permanent reminder that he had killed him. Whatever twisted alchemy bought the Talon’s back it had to be administered after they had lost the succession fight, or the battle would be far too long. That meant the ‘blueprint’ they were restored from often wouldn’t repair the fatal wound. It wasn’t like the Talons were performing any vital processes for a cut throat to get in the way...

Bruce hopes he will tell them more about why the Court ordered this attack. For everyone’s sakes they need to bring the perpetrators to justice quickly. While he knew Themyscira and Atlantis were sovereign states strongly allied with the Justice League they were also military states. Their allied heroes could only placate the populations for so long; if they thought justice was not being dealt they would pick up arms themselves.

Despite knowing this he lingers more on the other case he’s been given. Maybe he’s just sick of chasing his tail but something about how _little_ there was in the Red Hoods’ files sparks his interest. They are dry factual reports, filled with simple data but no attempts at a connection outside of a cross-reference number. He wonders why at this time, in this city the name has come back now. He wonders what kind of criminal has the gall to take it for themselves.

Most of all he wonders what they are going to do next.

He makes the mistake of yawning and Dick frowns.

“Bed.” He orders.

“I’m fine for another hour.” Bruce tells him.

“If you’re tired your thought processes are compromised.” Dick reminds him in the slow, calm and patient tone the instructors at the League of Shadows had used when they were giving orders.

He plucks the file from Bruce’s hands, Bruce snatches it back. There’s a brief tussle over the files that sends papers scattering around them before Dick manages to pin him to the floor.

“See? Tired.” He says, taking the files away from him one final time. “Get some sleep. Maybe your subconscious can put together something we missed.”

It doesn’t.

His dreams are vague nebulous things, mere thoughts that shift and wander into absurdity, through imagined cases where the victim was the murderer and a man could be in two places at the same time. Each seems to be nearly solved before dissolving into yet more uncertainty, compromised, layer upon layer of evidence that migrates between cases to settle in the wrong places.

Bruce wakes up to find he’s chewed a hole in his pillow in his sleep. He knows this because what has woken him up is a feather tickling his nose. He feels like a kitten that had caught a pigeon and wasn’t sure what to do with it as he combs the feathers out of his mouth.

Alfred, bless him, had thick black velvet curtains installed in most of the house for them.  They blocked out the daylight so thoroughly there was only a faint shimmering outline of light to show the sun was up. For his sleep schedule it was the middle of the night. He grumbles faintly under his breath as he pummels the punctured pillow back into shape and gets up. He would just flip it over and go back to sleep but that would probably end up with feathers in the bed come morning. Or come noon, it was pretty much the same thing.

Out of habit he finds himself treading silently and keeping to the shadows as he hunts down a new pillow. It almost feels like a mission trying to find something so specific in such a big house and he tries not to enjoy it too much as he applies his detective skills.

A glimpse of light where there should not be light makes him pause. It’s barely a flicker glimpsed through a half-closed door, but the smallest clues always stood out the most to him. Something out of place in the world shone like a light in darkness.

He approaches the light carefully, it is unlikely to be a threat, but caution was a wise habit in places of safety as much as places of danger.

Because of that he spots Dick before Dick spots him.

He’s managed to get into his pajamas but that’s as far as he’s gotten. He’s sitting spread out on the couch intently focused on the screen. The files are still spread around his feet while the light of a laptop bleaches his face pale with light. Bruce silently eases the door open further and steps into the room.

“It doesn’t make sense…” Dick is muttering under his breath. “They attacked too soon, they had to have made a deal, gotten inside information from somewhere…How did they _know?_ ”

“Dick.” Bruce says, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s late.” He yawns. “Why are you on the couch?”

Dick looks up with what is clearly a guilty jolt and shuts the small laptop he had balanced on his lap. He blinks, going blind for a moment as the light cuts off and his eyes have to readjust to the darkness.

“It’s nothing, go back to bed.” He says.

Bruce is still sleepy but manages to glare.

“If you didn’t like the bed you can just say so.” He points out. “I can buy you a new bed. We can buy fifty new beds, a hundred even.”

“This isn’t a bed issue.” Dick says. “Go to sleep Bruce.”

“I’m not sleeping until you do.” Bruce says bluntly and sits on the arm of the couch.

“Bruce…” Dick sighs.

“I mean it.” Bruce says, not unkindly, as he folds his arms. “I’m not the only one that needs sleep to function. If you exhaust yourself chasing them then you’re playing into the Court’s claws.” He rests a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Sleep.” He orders.

“I’m supposed to be the one watching out for you.” Dick says and has to suppress a yawn.

Bruce gives him a dark look and Dick raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Five minutes then I’ll sleep, I swear.” He says.

“Dick…” Bruce says warningly. “Who watches the watcher who watches the watchmen?”

A small smile pulls at the corners of Dick’s mouth.

“Now that’s a mouthful.” He says.

“The answer.” Bruce insists.

“There’s an answer?” Dick asks.

Bruce nods.

“The watchmen do.” He says. “Sleep. We will be here when you wake. I promise.”

Dick sighs and stands, looking a bit sheepish as he does. He puts the laptop away.

“Sorry Bruce, I didn’t mean to worry you.” He says and ruffles his hair. “The…Manor is going to take some getting used to, I haven’t been able to sleep recently.”

Bruce scowls.

“I want this place to be safe for you.” He says. “Whatever that takes. Sleep on the couch if you have to, but you have to _sleep._ In the morning I’ll get you a new bed, we can put up posters or something.”

“What would your ancestors think?” Dick says with a chuckle.

“My ancestors didn’t make their fortunes by caring what other people think.” Bruce replies. “Even when it came to interior decorating.”

Dick smiles.

“Yeah little buddy, that sounds good.” He says and stifles a yawn. “I'll turn for the night.”

Bruce gives him a disbelieving look.

“Really, I mean it!” Dick promises.

Bruce sighs. He leaves the room and at the point when Dick is debating whether or not he can restart the laptop he returns with his arms piled high with blankets. He dumps the lot of them onto the couch. The words of Bruce’s that go unsaid but Cassandra would be able to clearly hear are _I want you to know I’m still going to be here while you sleep. I’m not going to let them take me away from you._

“Shut up and sleep.” Bruce says grumpily.

Dick smiles and lets his breathing calm as he tries to take his thoughts away from the case and rest. Eventually he manages it.


	2. Case #0001: Red Hoods (Part Two)

A new day dawns.

There’s one terrible moment after Bruce wakes up when he doesn’t know who he is or what is real. He just lies in bed, watching the ceiling. A faint gap in the curtains lets in a single shaft of light, like a spotlight or a beam of alien heat vision. It spotlights a few dancing dust motes as memory trickles back in. He doesn’t want to remember. The memories hurt, he wants to recoil from them like touching a hot stove, but instead he lets the pieces fall back into place. He was awake and he had work to do. There was always work to do.

He hauls himself up on one arm then literally rolls out of bed for no reason other than he can. He rises and grabs the curtains with each hand. He yanks them open and stands staring unblinkingly in the morning sun. Technically it’s noon, but by now Bruce feels morning isn’t a time, it’s a state of mind, and if anyone thinks otherwise it’s because they’re not in possession of all of the facts. The _morning_ sun shines on the lawn outside, the sky is blue, the grass is green and there are songbirds singing in the trees outside. It’s a nice day out there; Alfred has scattered the crusts of some old, stale bread _coincidentally_  right outside the window so he can see the little birds flying down to tear at it with their beaks. Bruce begrudgingly awards the old man points for that.

He stretches, gets dressed, swaps his sleeping weapons for his active ones, then wanders off in search of breakfast. He doesn’t have to go far, the smell of frying bacon seems to bypass the walls to permeate the entire _floor_ around the kitchen. He just has to follow his nose, literally, then the sound of an old song being hummed. Bruce drifts into the kitchen like a shadow, but Dick’s actually paying attention now and notices, even though he keeps his eyes on the pan as he cracks another egg into it.

“Morning baby bat.” He says cheerfully.

Bruce yawns and pulls up a chair to the much smaller kitchen table. He flops down in it, angling it deliberately crooked so he can keep an eye on Dick’s back as he cooks.

“’Hate mornings.” He mutters under his breath, as if Dick doesn’t already know, as if they hadn’t had variations on this conversation every morning for years now.

“You’ll hate them less once you’ve got some food in you.” Dick replies, as he has for years. “One tomato or two?”

“Two.” Bruce replies.

There’s a case folder on the table, a new one, and he reaches for it like it’s a morning paper. Dick clicks his tongue disapprovingly as he slides two fried tomatoes onto a plate.

“Eat first.” He says, putting the complete breakfast on the table in front of him.

Bruce snorts and stabs an egg with his fork. The yolk breaks and bleeds golden over his fork. He makes a stack of bacon, tomato and toast before sweeping it through the wounded egg yolk and popping it in his mouth.

Dick turns off the stove and sits opposite him with his own plate of breakfast. The unopened case folder sits between them, filling the world with its weight. There are a few minutes of busy silence as they both focus on eating. Bruce meaningfully puts his knife and fork down with a ‘tink’ of cutlery against crockery. Dick sighs and pushes the case file closer to him.

“Barbara’s got something to add to your case.” Dick says carefully as he slices into a fried tomato. “The ‘Hoods put a guy in hospital last night.”

Bruce sits up straighter and a frown deeply creases his forehead. He’s going to have so many wrinkles when he’s old. Dick can see him thinking ‘If only I…’ as easily as if it was written in the air between them.

“Bruce, you have to sleep sometime.” Dick says warningly. “You _cannot_ stay awake all the time on the off chance a crime might happen while you sleep.”

“Hypocrite.” Bruce grumbles, picking at his eggs. He’s lost his appetite.

“Maybe so.” Dick ruffles his hair.

“What’s the deets?” Bruce asks as he shovels egg into his mouth. He’s going to need the energy so he might as well finish the plate.

“It’s looking like a robbery gone wrong, they were hitting a garage and didn’t realize the owner slept above the shop.” Dick tells him. Bruce opens the file with one hand, looking over it to confirm the details. “He’d thought a raccoon had gotten in, flipped on the lights and some bastard got him from behind with a tire iron. It didn’t take him out, he staggered, managed to hit an alarm switch, then they broke his arm and hit him in the head again. After that he passed out. By the looks of it they were after the tires, they left in a hurry and left some of them behind. Barely had time to get the paint up before the cops showed.”

The paint marks certainly look hurried, the streaked and running red paint is barely readable and ends in a panicked smear where the can has been dropped as the painter ran. It would almost be funny if it wasn’t for the pool of blood under it.

“How’s the owner?” Bruce asks.

“Confused, but he’ll survive.” Dick tells him. “Head wounds bleed a lot, they probably figured they were leaving him for dead.”

“That is a problem.” Bruce says seriously.

“Yes it is.” Dick replies equally seriously. “If they’ve stepped up to assault it’s only a matter of time until they really murder someone.”

Bruce drums his fingers on the cover of the case file.

“But I’m not off the case.” He states instead of asking.

“Barbara’s short on staff. If you can find out where they are and what they’re doing you’ll stay on the case for the arrests.” Dick frowns, his expression softening. “Are you sure you can handle this baby bat? We’ve got enough on our plate with the Owls. Gotham will go on the same without you.”

“Yes…” Bruce says carefully. “That’s why I want to stick with this case.”

Dick sighs.

“Fine.” He says. “I have to prepare a room for Richard today anyway. M’Gann’s been having trouble with the psychic interrogation, she wants to keep him a bit longer to see if it can help break them.”

“So you’re making him a cell.” Bruce says bluntly.

“Would you prefer he wandered free?” Dick replies.

“I would prefer to live in a world where we don’t have to have this conversation.” Bruce sighs. “I don’t like relying on a Talon for this operation. This is personal for him.” His voice grows quieter. “This is personal for _us._ ”

Dick looks at him with genuine concern.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” He asks quietly.

“…No.” Bruce says quietly, barely louder than a whisper. “I can’t do _nothing_ Dick. It will kill me.”

“I’m not losing you to this city. I’ve lost too much already.” Dick says quietly but firmly.

“Research only,” Bruce promises. “The police can handle the actual arrests. I don’t want to show my hand too soon, it might tip off the owls.”

Dick sighs.

“Fine, research only.” As he stands he picks up his empty plate. “You going to be okay by yourself?”

Bruce nods.

Internally he clamps down on the new case like a dog locking its jaws around a meaty bone. Dwelling on a case without evidence would kill him, it would eat him inside out like a disease. This, this was something he can do something about, here and now. He has to prove to himself that he’s not helpless, he can still help people, he can still achieve _something._

He’d always planned on returning to Gotham, when he was older and stronger, but that promise he’d made as a child seemed far away. He’d never put a date on it, he’d just assumed it would happen ‘in the future’, a time so distant he hadn’t put a number on it.

It turned out Gotham had other plans.

It was silly to think of a collection of buildings and people as having plans but that’s what it feels like. Gotham was still in some indescribable way _his_ city. Dick didn’t understand it, for him home was always people not places and he’d lost too many of them.

Gotham was his city, his home, his responsibility. He’d neglected it and it had hurt people he loved. His home had tried to destroy Dick’s home. He can’t help but feel it was his fault. If he hadn’t gone to the Owls, if he hadn’t been training with Damian, if he had made different decisions at different times things would be different.

Everything seemed obvious in hindsight, as always.

He takes the files back into his room and starts to work.

The first thing he does is write a ‘do not disturb’ sign for the door. Afterwards he moves the furniture around so he has an open square of carpet to start laying things out on. He needs to create a dedicated space for this, but the idea of extensively remodeling the manor is repellant. It would be a waste to knock down walls just to house files.

He takes Dick’s laptop with him, he doesn’t need the spider drive to access the League’s database anymore.

Where to begin, where to begin? This was simple on the surface, but there was a _history_ here that went deeper than the street gang. He takes out his burner phone and places a call to an unlisted number. It’s picked up on the third ring.

“Tim, I need info on the Red Hood Case files, going back as far as you have them, please.” Bruce asks.

“It’s Steph, Tim is out.” Stephanie’s voice comes over the line and Bruce colors in embarrassment.

“Sorry Aunt Steph.” He says quickly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“It’s no bother.” Stephanie tells him. “I heard you’re holed up in Gotham now. What do you need the ‘Hood files for, Jason been causing trouble?” She asks.

“No more than usual.” Bruce says. “We’ve got a street gang picking up the name, tagging buildings, some breaking-and-entering, a few thefts, an aggravated assault, but it’s looking like the lead up to something bigger.”

Stephanie hums. He hears her fingers moving across a keyboard.

“I’m on it but it’s going to take me a while.” She says conversationally, as if this information wasn’t classified. “So let me give you the downlow; The Red Hoods were a street gang first, well, a loose collection of crooks used the name. That’s how Jason got it; he was a Narrows kid, beat the previous Red Hood in a fistfight, got the name handed down to him, and started cleaning up the streets. He said he was out for revenge, but I don’t think there was any one person was after, he just said that because he can’t knee a city in the groin.” Stephanie says with a nostalgic sigh. “Gotham loved him. Gotham _society_ hated him. There wasn’t a single paper that didn’t call him a public menace at _best._ Unhinged mass-murdering lunatic was the most common description, but what it meant was he was bad for business. Organized crime’s at least predictable you see. Freedom not as much.”

The keyboard clicks away.

“You know he wasn’t always like…” Stephanie makes a noncommittal noise. “Jason, you know? He laughed a lot more, made these stupid puns and ran around in colored tights just because he was having fun with it. He used to believe, really _believe_ , that we could make this city better. Tim _idolized_ him, ya know? He did his own detective work, made himself a costume and tracked Jason down and begged Jason to train him as a sidekick.”

“No…” Bruce says with malevolent glee. He is definitely using this for blackmail.

“Honest-to-God he did.” Stephanie swears. “Red Hood and Red Robin.”

“How were the costumes?” Bruce asks. “Did they match?”

“They both looked terrible.” Stephanie says. “The most hideous garish messes I have ever seen. They looked like they escaped from an asylum for clowns.”

Bruce laughs.

“I’ll send you the pictures.” Stephanie promises him. “Of course, seeing that I had to join in and impose _some_ fashion sense on that mess.”

 Stephanie laughs.

“They called Jason our leader because he was the oldest, but he was more like a big brother. He never let Tim skip out on his homework, hell, he tutored Tim as often as Tim tutored him. He didn’t want to be dismissed as good-for-nothing stupid gutter trash forever. He collects first edition novels; did you know that?”

Bruce shakes his head and remembers it’s not a video call.

“No.” He says out loud. “He hasn’t mentioned.”

“I didn’t think he would; he came back…different. All three of us were there on that blimp; three teenage kids and a ton of explosives set to rain molten death on the city. We couldn’t disarm it; Tim still blames himself for that. Jason knew before we did that the only thing that could save the city was for one of us to steer the blimp into the harbor. He couldn’t just let it drop, there wasn’t time. If it hit at the wrong angle it would have bounced and taken out half the docks.”

Stephanie sighs.

“He didn’t even say goodbye. He grabbed us both and threw us free before we realized what was happening and took the wheel himself.”

She laughs bitterly.

“You know up until the very last _second_ I was expecting him to still make it? Even after the explosion I thought there was no way he would die, not Jason, not him...Then I saw them pull the body from the river...”

Bruce remembered that too; it had traumatized him as a child of three seeing the body fished from the wreckage by the patrol boats and reverently carried up by the crowd. None of them had tried to find out who he was, Bruce remembered that, a lot of the body was burned but none of them tried removing the mask. He was the Red Hood and he had died for them. That had been all they needed to know.

“After he died, well, it killed Tim when Jason died. It killed the little part of him that believed the world was good and fair and it all it needs is for us to reach out and help people.” Steph tells him.

“After Jason died, there was peace for a month.” Bruce says carefully, wanting to know what had _actually_ happened. It was weird to be talking to the _real_ Spoiler about something that had happened before he was in kindergarten. It was still weird to think that hadn’t just happened to real people but people he was close enough to to consider them his family.

“Yeah…” Steph sighs. “What people forget is that Jason, well, he _kept_ us good. He was our hero but more than that he was family. None of us wanted to look bad in front of him but after he died, well, Tim did a bit of visiting.”

She makes it sound like a euphemism for something much worse.

“Every crime lord in the city woke up that night with Tim on the end of the bed handing them an explanatory pamphlet on why it was in their best interests to lie low while he investigated Jason’s murder. It’s probably the nicest way he’s shown he knows where you sleep and your security can’t stop him. A couple of them decided to ignore his advice.” Stephanie says non-committally, as if discussing the weather. “Technically it was suicide, he didn’t lay a finger on them but he proved…He proved he didn’t have to hold back. That was when we got asked to join the Justice League, and do you know what Tim said?”

“What?”

“If Jason wasn’t good enough to join, there’s nothing _I_ can offer you.” Steph tells him in a pretty good impression of what Tim was like a teenager.

“Ouch.” Bruce sounds impressed.

“Ouch indeed.” There’s a staccato clatter of keys. “After that he got into his little fight with Damian and uncovered then destroyed dozens of ancient conspiracies. Tim was sure there was something _more_ to Jason’s death, still is to be honest. Someone as _good_ as Jason couldn’t die to simple bad luck with an _average_ villain, you see, there had to be a hidden evil force out to destroy him because otherwise the universe wouldn’t _allow_ good to lose and evil to win. The villain who claimed responsibility couldn’t possibly be good enough to program a bomb Tim couldn’t hack, because that would mean it was _his_ fault for failing, it would mean Jason’s death was because of _him.”_

“It’s not…” Bruce starts to say.

“Oh I know it’s not his fault. It’s no-one’s fault but the guy who built the bomb in the first place.” Steph replies. “But that’s how Tim thinks. The world can’t just be cruel and random, there has to be a _reason_ why Jason died instead of him. There has to be an _answer,_ that’s why he calls himself what he does.”

Bruce hears the small sound that accompanies a bitter smile.

“It killed Tim again when he found out Jason came back and never told him; they both blame themselves for failing each other you see. They both fighting to shoulder the blame.”

Stephanie continues casually.

“Tim didn’t think he was a good enough sidekick for Jason. Jason didn’t think he was a good enough role model for Tim, and I don’t think I’m good enough for anybody. Tim…Tim would have matyred himself if Jason hadn’t done it first. He always thought of himself as the support, there to help the _real_ hero, that he was the one who didn’t matter. If someone had to die he thinks it should have been him,” She sighs. “But when Jason threw me onto that rooftop...I was just happy it wasn’t me.”

A click of keys sounds through their connection.

“Aaaand I’m through, thanks for waiting. Sending those files your way now.”

“Thanks Steph.” Bruce says with a smile.

“No problem, Tim’s yet to devise a security system good enough to keep Spoiler out.” Stephanie says.

There is a rustle of motion heard through the phone, crackling with distance, but Bruce bets it is someone (or some _thing_ ) climbing through a window.

“Yeah? Yeah, that was me.” Bruce hears Stephanie say to someone else in the room, half covering the receiver with a hand. He needs his training to make it out. “No, I’m not going to ‘just ask for the password’, I’m bonding with the kid.”

There is another rustle of motion and Stephanie returns to the phone call.

“Got to go, Tim’s grumpy I’m not going to tell him how I did it. Good luck with your case.” Stephanie says. “Tell Dick I said Hi.”

“Will do, thanks for your help.” Bruce tells her.

“Any time.” Stephanie says and there’s a brief crackle as the phone is taken from her.

“What the _hell_ are you doing with the Red Hood files?” Tim demands to know, his tone decidedly pissed off. “You better not be planning anything!”

 “Gotham street gang’s using the name.” Bruce tells him casually.

There’s a brief silence, a static-edged sigh and the sound of Tim taking a seat. His fingers dance over the keys.

“Gotham people are so gods-damned _stupid_.” Tim says emphatically. “Is Jason involved?”

“Tangentially. He showed up to say they’re not affiliated.” Bruce tells him.

“Thank small gods for small miracles.” Tim mutters. Bruce can tell he’s probably pinching the bridge of his nose against a headache.  “Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do…”

Bruce hears Steph distantly call ‘you can’t micromanage every city in the world Tim!’ and a sharp reply of ‘Shut up, yes I can!’ before Tim turns back to the phone.

A click of keys and an icon lights up on the laptop. Bruce quickly clicks it and a video chat app opens up. Tim is in full Question outfit with his face the Question’s blank mask of flesh colored compound. Either he’s been interrupted doing some vigilante work or he’s taking Steph’s hack very seriously. Could be both. Bruce tries to look like he knows what he’s doing. Tim was a friend of his, but the Question was dangerously unpredictable even to his allies.

“With all due respect, this is my case.” Bruce says firmly. “They’re a street gang, unpredictable and violent, but not something I need League backup for.”

“You and I both know I’m barely League affiliated.” Tim scoffs. “It doesn’t count. I’m an independent consultant, attached to Justice League Dark.”

“The _magicians_?” Bruce frowns. “Are you…?”

“I’ve got the magical talent of a plate of beans.” Tim snorts. “But a lot of magic types haven’t learned yet that your Dust of Tracelessness or whatever that negates _magical_ tracking doesn’t erase the tire tracks you left when you drove here. Magicians think magic is the only way to do things, having someone normal around helps keep them grounded.”

Bruce takes care not to point out that Tim is hardly normal.

“What have you been talking about?” Tim’s casualness is dripping with insecurity. “The good old days?” Bruce winces, the sarcasm in Tim’s voice could be weaponized.

“The old days at least.” Bruce admits. “I don’t remember most of it due to being an infant. I didn’t know you turned the League down.”

“At first, yes. I was young and angry, we could have used some damn support instead of making everything ourselves. I’m more mature now.” Says the man who just climbed through a window because someone else was using his computer. “That’s before Damian started pestering me to join his stupid organization and the League started looking a helluva lot better.”

Tim snorts.

“He forgot I don’t take orders, especially from jumped up little assassins that think they know what’s best for everyone. I got a helluva education doing it, but taught him that I wasn’t someone he could manipulate.” The Question says solemnly. He pauses. “Talia sent me a fruit basket.” He adds. “It had dates in it. Fresh ones.”

“What did he do to piss you off so much anyway?” Bruce asks. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

It should be impossible to tell over the video-feed but Bruce can see Tim’s face harden behind the mask.

“Damian wanted to cover up something that shouldn’t be covered up.” He says quietly but his words has a weight that speaks of a lot of pain behind them. “I couldn’t let him do that. It goes against my beliefs.”

Bruce frowns.

“I don’t think Damian would try and do anything wrong.” He says, thinking of the Master of Shadows. Damian had far too much self-control for Bruce to picture him doing something really evil, he kept such a tight grip on his actions he wouldn’t allow himself to. Everything meticulous checked over, every action in its proper place.

“I don’t care much for ‘right and wrong’.” Tim says dismissively.

Bruce’s frown grows.

“Then how do you know what you’re doing is just?” He asks.

Tim leans forwards until the expressionless mask of flesh seems to cover the whole screen, staring him down with the eyes he didn’t have.

“I don’t believe in justice.” Tim says. “For me justice died when Jason did. There’s no justice in this world, Bruce, no fairness, no cosmic hand balancing the scales. You are sailing a tiny paper boat of flimsy ideals against the deep, dark ocean of reality and expecting the ocean to change for _you_ ; that is not only foolish, it is _wrong_. You’re clinging to the idea of justice like a security blanket, it is a crutch and a shackle, nothing more. Justice is noble, but it’s just a pretty ideal. It isn’t real. It isn’t _true._ ”

“I have to believe in something.” Bruce says quietly. “What do you believe in?”

“I believe in the Truth, Bruce, it will not bend or break.” Tim replies. “A crime can be a matter of perspective, or timing, or luck; the Truth is the only absolute. It is, or it is not.”

If his tone had been that of a zealot Bruce could have dismissed it as brainwashing, but Tim speaks with the quiet assurance of someone stating an absolute fact. It sends a shiver down Bruce’s spine and reminds him why the Question was only an auxiliary member of the Justice League even if he had the ability to be a core one. Tim saw the world in black and white without shades of grey, but the division in his head wasn’t between Good and Evil, it was between True and False.

In his own way Tim was the most dangerous person Bruce had ever met, and he didn’t need anything but his ideals to be. He has to remind himself that Tim might be his friend, but the Question cared about one thing only and it wasn’t friendship. If he got in the way of the Question’s quest for truth he would be moved aside, with minimum of force true, but the Question will still _get him out of the way._

“Seek the truth, little detective.” Tim says softly. “The truth will keep you safe. Question out.”

The videofeed dies.

A few seconds later the case files start to arrive on his computer, along with a few pictures of the Gotham Three as kids. Clown asylum was right, that color scheme was practically anti-camouflage, but Jason’s cheery grin shows he’s aware of that and not apologizing for it. It’s not meant to be concealment, it’s a challenge. Jason had looked at the darkness of Gotham and said ‘I’m not scared -- do your worst'. Gotham had. Bruce feels a strange sadness creep over him looking at it. They were younger than he is. He doesn’t feel like using this as blackmail.

Bruce puts the pictures aside and dives into the case files. There are a lot of them, leading back until records were lost in an arson of the hall of records. Bruce wonders how much of this the gang knew. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were doing this as a tribute to Jason; taking up the name as they corrected the perceived injustices about the world. They probably saw themselves as Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, because who was poorer than them? From what he could tell the gang were opportunists, but ones that chose to punch above their weight. From their patterns they were likely juvenile recidivists, kids who had used their time in juvvie to network with other criminals and plan bigger crimes as revenge.

They were getting bolder. Bruce was aware of mob mentality. There would be a leader, somewhere, disguised by anonymity and keeping the entire thing going, but it would mostly be a group of scared kids egging each other on to worse and worse crimes to fit in with a majority that didn’t exist. Right now, they were beneath the concerns of the major gangs, and far beneath the sight of the Owls, but soon they would hit a target bigger than they could handle and the Red Hoods would end up a red paste. That was where he came in.

Bruce pours over the files; single hazy stills from security cameras, pictures of their sign spray-painted across alley walls, reports of loitering teens around places that later got robbed. He prints things out and links them with strips of colored tape to narrow down the next targets. The time between attacks was getting less and less; they would strike again soon and it would be bigger than anything they’ve pulled before. He goes back through the files until he’s looking at the previous crooks who had used the name.

He pulls up one of the oldest videofiles of the time Jason was Red Hood. The videofile is footage from a security camera, nearly monochrome and hazy from the age of the camera in question. It’s caught the exact moment Jason drops into frame, the red of his hood the color of old blood on the old video.

Bruce hits play and immediately draws in a hissed breath of surprise through his teeth.

There’s no other word for it.

Jason is hamask.

With blood dripping from his fists and a snarl on his face there’s not a degree of wasted movement as he goes straight into attack mode. He’s a perfect engine of destruction and he tears through the thugs like a hurricane through a haystack. He’s not a human any more, he’s a natural disaster. Bones snap and muscle tears under his fingers, punches slide off him like raindrops from a moving car. One big guy with more bravado than brains manages to last a minute under the onslaught before toppling like a tree. Jason snorts and uses his body as a spring to leap at his next opponent, his snarl now a savage grin of satisfaction. It seems to gleam on the camera, his white teeth mottled with red blood.

Tim is not hamask but he moves with it, riding the flow of battle like a skilled sailor rides a wave. He’s always where Jason is not, skirting the edge of the melee, out of the way of any casual punch or kick. Anyone turning to hit him is taking their attention off the whirlwind of fury that was the Red Hood, Jason takes the opening and makes them _suffer_. Tim knows without looking where Jason is going to be before he moves there, always thinking three steps ahead, seemingly the only one in the room able to predict the course of the rampage. Whenever any tough has enough breathing room to think of raising a gun he’s already there, kicking them into melee range with the engine of fury that is the Red Hood.

You could almost miss Steph robbing everyone blind, indeed everyone on screen seems to have. She moves like a shadow, disabling alarms, stealing files, uploading viruses to hard-drives, alerting the police and still taking the time to pick the pockets of every unconscious thug before anyone sees her doing so. Everyone’s too distracted by the bright flashes of red on Tim and Jason’s costumes to notice her herding them towards danger. Her movements are even more subtle than Tim’s, but no less skilled. A nudge in the darkness, a gentle shove, a thrown pebble and they’re drawn back into the fray.

The last opponent falls and Jason shakes his head against a sound only he can hear, snorting and flexing his bloody fingers as he hunts for any further danger. When he find none he straightens up and unclenches his teeth, rubbing at his jaw to ease the ache as the beast retreats. He puts an arm around Tim’s shoulders as Steph drops from the shadows at their side. Something is said that Bruce can’t catch through the low-quality recording, but their laughter is unmistakable. Jason’s other arm wraps around Steph’s shoulders as they leave.

The clip ends with their shadows still visible in the doorway in a hazy vibrating still.

Bruce watches it for a moment.

He hadn’t known Jason was hamrammr, but now he knows it makes sense. The seething rage that lurked under the skin was the rage of an untamed hamask; he didn’t have the training to direct that wild fury to a useful end so he forced it down like he was caging a beast. That never worked in the long term, the beast always broke free and its rampage was deadlier for escaping its cage. Most of Jason’s effort in any fight had to go towards keeping himself from going hamask, after it escaped he would be weakened physically and mentally.

He had never seen Jason really let loose before. Sure he’d fought with Jason (he mentally corrects himself to fought _alongside_ Jason) but he hadn’t been hamask then. He was hamask in this video, when he was younger, when he was the Red Hood.

The animal designations were just labels he applied to patterns of behavior, a mental shorthand to try and distance himself from what was at its root a _human_ behavior. The classic trio of Bear, Boar and Wolf were arbitrary distinctions drawn on a broad generalization of combat data. Still it feels bitterly ironic when Bruce examines the fight with the eye of a fellow hamrammr to see his type. That fighting style of focused fury, protecting and working alongside allies while making everything else your prey was one of the first three styles.

Jason’s Hamask is Úlfhéðnar, the wolf-coat.

He is a werewolf.

Bruce drums his fingers on the desk pensively. His standing orders, which he still respects, is to report _every_ unregistered hamask to Damian so they can be Tamed. He doesn’t think Jason would take that well. A wolf was not a dog after all, they didn’t see a reason to obey orders. While he feels this is something he has to do himself he knows that he’s not strong enough to perform a taming. The Bat couldn’t beat the Wolf in a straight fight, at least not _yet._

Of the first three hamrammr the Wolf was the one that was social. Bears would protect a few ‘cubs’, Boars cared only for the kill, but the Wolf wanted company. They were both happiest and most effective when they had a pack of fellow wolves to run alongside. The strongest Wolf hamrammr were forged in the same event, linked by their shared trauma into a war-forged band of brothers, a perfect self-contained military unit.

A lone wolf was…unnatural.

Bruce wonders if Jason feels that too, if he feels like he _should_ have a pack, not just of people he cares about and loves, but of people that were _like him._ Maybe that’s why they got along so well, or maybe he’s just reading too much into it.

The animal names were just that, names. Convenient labels to attach to bundles of behaviors, they weren’t always accurate to the animal itself in the same way they weren’t always accurate to the individual. Nothing fit neatly inside the box a label made without chopping bits off. Jason was a Wolf but he was also _Jason,_ an individual that would bust out of any box you put him in. 

Bruce is resolved to sit down with him and have an honest conversation about it before he decides to do anything. Damian wouldn’t be happy, but Bruce honestly doubts he could _force_ Jason to do anything. He may have sworn to obey Damian’s orders, but he’d sworn on the Traveler which meant he’d only do it while it was convenient, and he’s sure Damian knows that too. Dick had sworn by the same god after all…

He puts the files to the back of the list for now. He’s still got a case to solve.

Bruce takes down one of the whiteboards Barbara got them, ones with the map of the city printed on its surface so you could color in various districts with marker depending on what gang or crime you were tracking. He starts to plot out the previous targets, looking for a pattern that connects them.

He finally marks in bright red marker the three spots he thinks are the next targets and allows himself to breathe. He sits back, and immediately his stomach twists to remind him he’s missed meals. He scowls at the regrettable need to fuel his body and gathers his findings into a folder. Tucking the folder under his arm he heads towards the kitchens.

Alfred is there, washing up after dinner.

“There you are Master Bruce. We were about to send out a search party.” He says without looking up. “There are leftovers in the fridge for you.”

“Thanks.” Bruce says as he juggles the plate into position. “Where’s Dick?”

“Last I saw him Master Dick was in the study.” Alfred tells him. “Master Bruce, please do remember to _eat_ before you badger him about your case.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and tucks the plate into the crook of his elbow so he can gnaw at a cold chicken drumstick while he walks. He rips off large chunks from the meat and swallows with the minimum of chewing. Curtains have been drawn closed, night has fallen. If he was right about this they didn’t have much time.

Bruce pauses in front of a familiar door and bites back a jolt of childhood nervousness. He knocks on the dark oak door of the study.

“Come in.” Dick’s voice calls from inside.

Bruce pushes the door open. The room beyond is nearly unrecognizable. The study he recognizes is still there but Dick has stamped his personality onto the room with force. The bookcases are still covered with dust covers and the heavy brass reading lamp on the desk has been joined by dozens of case files given to them by Barbara. The somber wallpaper is nearly hidden under notes and maps and, a touch of color, some posters of the circus.

Dick sits in this mess with several files in front of him, looking over one of the whiteboard maps. There are several districts loosely colored in according to the current state of the ever-present gang wars. He is industriously erasing a few blocks from one gang’s territory and adding it to another’s.

“I was thinking we should start patrols from the warehouse district.” Dick tells him. “We’ve got a tipoff there’s a hand-off going down near the docks, might be worth a look.”

Bruce adds the folder to the top of his pile and sits. He sets the plate on his lap and continues eating.

“The Red Hoods will strike again tonight, I’ve narrowed it down to three potential targets.” He says and swallows the last of the chicken.

Dick looks away from the map and picks up the folder, double-checking Bruce’s detective work in the same way he used to double-check Bruce’s homework.

“Good work.” He says as he looks over the folder. “What do you want to do next?” He asks.

“We split up.” Bruce says. “Cover all three targets, you take the freezing works, I’ll take the playing card factory and Barbara can send someone to the pawn shop. Easy.”

“Are you sure you can handle a solo stakeout, I can call in some favors…” Dick asks.

Bruce shakes his head and frowns pointedly.

“You gave me the case in the first place because you thought I could handle it.” He points out.

Dick sighs.

“Alright, I trust you. Don’t make me regret it, right?” He asks.

Bruce nods.

“Call for help if anything happens.” Dick says with a stern look. “I mean it, do _not_ go in alone. I am not going to lose you again, not to a street gang, not to anybody.”

Dick pauses as he leaves through the folder, slowly he lowers it enough for Bruce to see that one of the pictures Stephanie has sent him has fallen into the file.

“Where did you get this picture?” Dick asks softly.

“Aunt Steph sent it to me.” Bruce says. “She says hi.”

Dick carefully picks up the picture, his face unreadable, and hands it back to him.

“Keep it safe.” He says and breathes out with a sigh.

“I will.” Bruce says solemnly. “So are we doing this or what?”

Dick sighs.

“We're doing this.”


	3. Chapter 3

It shouldn’t but Bruce’s heart leaps at those three words.

No more waiting, no more gnawing fear of inaction boiling inside him. The sun was down, the moon was a faint smear of light among the smog clouds reflecting the city’s glow, and it was past time for a bat to be on the wing. It was time to _hunt_.

The part of him that was a Bat unfurled its wings and raised its head to smell the night air. It gnashed its pointed teeth, eager to feel the shells of prey crack under its powerful jaws. Even the _scent_ of this night felt familiar to it, buoying it up from inside with the feeling of being back in its territory. It’s strange to think that the last time it had been here it was under the claws of the Owls. It was bigger now, and stronger, it wasn’t going to let its territory be taken from it again.

Bruce lets his ability to think take a back seat as he sinks himself into the skin of the Bat. With every piece of dark armor he puts on he feels more like himself. He is strong, he is fast, he’s a goddamn apex predator and he was going to take back control of his life. The Bat would hunt the ones who burned his home and make them _hurt._ The thinking part of him felt too much pain, the Bat takes it and turns it into a weapon.

The Bat bares its teeth in something that wasn’t quite a snarl and wasn’t quite a smile. This was its city, this was its territory. This roost was the home roost where it had been raised, it was safe, _defensible_ ground from which to start a war. Its territory was infested, it was crawling with filthy vermin to crush between its teeth and it was so very hungry. It was going to make a feast of their fear and the night air would sing with their screams.

It can hardly wait.

Together they are going to tear this city from the talons of the Owls. Together they will teach them _fear._

In many ways the world was simpler when you were a Bat. Its world was nearly literally black-and-white between the streetlights and the night sky throwing the city into high-contrast. There was the prey and the hunt; simple, pure, clean of purpose. They ran, so the Bat chased.

Muscles ache, ropes crack, the rooftops blur under foot and streetlights pass overhead, but Gotham is playing her cards close to her chest.

There’s no shortage of prey of course, the city streets ran thick with rats of both kinds. The Bat delights in swooping down on those too young or foolish to remember why you always looked up in Gotham. It feels like a strange mix between its instruction with the Shadows and being shown the ropes when they first trained together at the circus. The Bat feels a deep desire to show off, to show his teacher he had learned well, to show his father he was getting the hang of it, to show the wounded Bird that it was unharmed. Maybe it stands up straighter than normal, maybe it flares its wings wider than it has to, maybe it _smiles_ as they stalk the night side-by-side as two perfect predators _._ Mother Gotham wraps her wings of smoke and shadow around them and they are home.

The Bat lets the thinking part take over the mouth while it surveys its kingdom. Making plans wasn’t something it was good at, the Bat acted in the moment. It left the planning to the thinking part.

Dick calls him ‘Hatchling’ just once before he freezes like a statue, what’s visible of his face going pale like he’s about to be sick.

They aren’t sure what to do, the Bat wants to reach for him but the thinking part isn’t sure it would help. The Bird isn’t here, he’s lost in the past, his eyes focused on some hidden horror only he can see. The Bat understands, it was born in one of those moments, trauma was the air it breathed, but it didn’t know what to do either. It was a creature of sharpened instinct; all fang and leather wings. Mapping the shape of someone else’s trauma was too complex a thought to fit in its head. It settles for a touch, lightly resting a hand on the Bird’s shoulder. It’s enough for the Bird to flinch and come back to himself.

The Bird mutters something under his breath about chasing fuzzywits. Even though he’s the smaller of the pair the Bat curls one wing around the Bird to shelter him from the night. It’s mistaken for a hug, but the Bat doesn’t mind when it’s pulled under a wing in return. The Bird had sheltered it from the night for a long time. It’s time for it to return the favor.

“We’ve got this.” The thinking part says with their mouth. The Bat wants to snap at the strange sensation of something else using its jaws. The thinking part reminds it not to hiss.

“I should have done this from the start, should I?” The Bird says. He smiles a small sad smile as he ruffles their hair, or more accurately the wig that was part of the mask.

The Bat endures the grooming. Actually exposing his hair was asking to leave DNA evidence behind, appearing to do so meant another layer to protect his identity. The Bat had shorter hair than Bruce Wayne, therefore they weren’t the same. It didn’t stand up to close scrutiny, everyone was aware how wigs worked, but that was what a performance did. People found themselves thinking something without noticing it.

An idea occurs. The Bat looks at where they are, the streets below them and the communications tower above, snorts and starts to climb.

“Hold up, where do you think you’re going?” Dick asks.

The Bat rolls its eyes. It meant the snort as an invitation to follow, but the Bird didn’t seem to understand that. Inwardly it asks the thinking part that stays perched on one shoulder if it should try to explain. The Imp judges that trying to explain will lead to more questions that it would answer. The Bat pauses, taking a perch in the crossbeams and looking expectantly down at the Bird. It beckons with a challenge and a smug smirk and the Bird recognizes he wants to race.

“Oh you are _on_ baby bat.” The Bird laughs and begins to follow.

After that the Bat has to concentrate on climbing not to be left behind.

It has a head start of a few meters but the Bird, the Bird _flies_ up the tower further and faster than the Bat can. It’s a reminder it is still young, still with much growing to do before they can match a Bird in flight.

The tower’s a good challenge; the handhelds are incidental and the smooth metal a puzzle to grip. The Bat has to think ahead, to follow the direction of the thinking part as they climb higher and higher and the way to the top becomes less apparent. There are ten foot stretches where they are rising solely on momentum with smooth metal panels under their claws, laughing in mockery of gravity as they continue to rise instead of fall.

The animal part is drooling with desire to bite the horizon, a fierce burning joy in his heart unfolds its wings. The night air is on their face and under their wings and they feel alive. The place where they belonged! The place they would protect! My city, my family, my home!

The Bird flies past them, treading lightly on the ringing metal, moving like the ghost of a shadow. His claws dig into the metal and with a last flutter of feathered wings the Bird perches at the top-most point of the tower. The Bat hauls themselves up only a few minutes later. The Bird takes its hand and hauls it up the last few feet. They catch their breath together.

“So what did you want to show me?” The Bird asks them.

The Bat grins and spins on its heels, wings spreading magnificently behind them in a fan of darkness. They theatrically bow like they’re introducing an act and gestures to the stage they have set out before them.

The stars shine faintly in the night sky above, the city lights blaze in a sea of light below, and in between the two is the two of them. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. The Bat breathes out a happy sigh. It’s a view of the city only shared with animals and plane passengers and none of them could appreciated it like they did. The Bat perches to get a closer look at the neon jungle, a thing that grows and thrives and changes like a protean garden made of metal and soot. It’s like an entirely alien organism, both one thing that swallowed the horizon and the sum of hundreds of thousands of individual pieces moving together to make something bigger than them all.

“You look like a gargoyle.” The Bird teases them.

The Bat scouts the ornate facings of the buildings below for the nearest gargoyle. When it finds one the Bat makes eye contact and mockingly mimics its pose, holding its wings out stiff to match.

The Bird smiles at him, a soft wistful smile.

“You belong here.” He says.

The Bat snorts and nudges under the feathers of the Bird’s wing, trying to say without words that it belonged where its family was. The Bird rests a hand on its shoulder.

“Yeah.” He says, answering a question neither part of the Bat had heard. “Time to get to work.”

The Bat closely surveys their surroundings as the other part goes through the checklist. The Bird was unsettled, showing vigilance should put him at ease. If it saw as much as a feather of an Owl it would tear it apart with its claws. It had proved it could, and tonight of all nights the city lights below them sparkled with red and blue.

The Owls couldn’t hide in the shadows anymore. Their Talons had been proven to be real, then they had been proven to be _beatable._ In attacking the Circus they had shifted from the stuff of nightmares to just another villain, and for the first time since the ‘death’ of Anarky Gotham had heroes again. They had lost in a way the Bat didn’t have words for. They’d lost their hold on people. They’d shown themselves to be monsters, yes, but not gods. Not unbeatable, made from the same fragile meat as any other animal. They could be fought. They could be defeated. Gotham wasn’t afraid any more.

The Gotham City Police Department had been happy to have them. It meant the villains would be shooting at someone else. The Bat feels this is bad, but the thinking part corrects it; letting others face danger when they were better equipped to handle it was good tactics.

The Bird fusses over them, making sure they’re taking their watch somewhere sheltered from danger and that their claws are sharp and ready. The communications device is a constant hum in their ears, letting the thinking part observe the world while the Bat watches. The Bird would rather the Bat stayed in the Roost, so he’d picked the safest location for them to stakeout.

The Bat feels bad about lying to him, the thinking part says they had to. The Monarch Playing Card Factory wasn’t the least likely target for the gang. It was the most likely target. The thinking part reassures it. If they were going to make Gotham their territory they needed to establish their reputation. If they are wrong, well, the others are better prepared to defend their locations than they would be. The Bat snorts. The thinking part reminds it they need to prove to Dick they can handle themselves without getting hurt.

Then he’s not two parts anymore he’s just Bruce, sitting crouched like a gargoyle being consumed by doubt. He tries to tell himself that this is for the best, that he’s made this decision based on logic alone, but the doubt gnaws at him. He knows he’s being selfish. He knows it’s selfish to want to prove himself, to prove _to_ himself that he’s not going to let everyone down. He needs to fight, he needs to _win,_ he needs to taste blood again. It’s a need that burns deep inside him.

The wind whistles around the rooftops; the Gotham night was textured by many sounds. Bruce lets the familiar mix of car alarms, rushing traffic, and distant machinery sweep over him. No arguments though, not this far away from the residential areas. He breathes out and lets the familiar sounds lull him into a trance.

He always slept better in the Fairgrounds of a big city than when they were on the road. The sounds of a city going on around him put him at ease. It was like a lullaby and, like a lullaby, he picks up when there’s one wrong note. Apprehension sweeps over him in a wave of sudden chill that sets his senses on edge. His senses become razor sharp as he hunts for the thing that’s wrong.

The Monarch Playing Card factory sits on the skyline like the corpse of a beached whale. It’s the special kind of ugly you got in buildings built for function over form. He leaves his post, slipping silent as a shadow over the sheet iron roofing. He should have…he shouldn’t…they can’t…they’re here, a dozen warring thoughts tangle like the tails of a rat king into a writhing, shrieking ball. A mixture of dread and excitement bubbles under his skin.

It’s _showtime._

He focuses his senses, hunting for what alerted him and, there! A rustling that’s too big to be a rat, at least the four-legged kind. He blinks on the night vision lenses in the mask and the last shadows flee. He can see everything laid out in front of him. He’s completely tuned out his comms, he’s sure that he’s right, the ‘hoods are here but…something’s wrong. He doesn’t know _what_ yet, just that it’s got the Bat on edge. The more instinctual primal part of himself had better intuition but wasn’t the best at saying why.

He spreads the cape and leaps, the micro-engineered fabric catching and turning a fall into a glide. He lands on the roof as light as a falling snowflake and sees why he’s put on edge.

He was right.

He was wrong.

They were here, but…

He’d miscalculated.

The Monarch Playing Card Factory was a good target; there’s a chemical they used for fixing the dye that could be used for cooking drugs. It was enough that the factory had security, not enough to draw the attention of the big players, too much for the street gangs. If you were young, stupid and desperate to prove yourself like the Red Hoods you’d try just to prove you were above the other hoods.

He’d overestimated their skill, he’d thought they would have a way to bribe or hack their way past security. That was stupid, it was a beginner’s mistake. Overestimating could be as dangerous as underestimating.

They were going through Ace Chemicals. He’d picked the right target but the wrong place.

A flash of red cloth seems to shine in his vision as someone duck behind a wall. He finds his voice, though his throat is freezing with tension and he feels like he’s bitten cotton wool.

“Suspicious activity.” He says into the headset. There’s an immediate upturn in the chatter and he winces. He doesn’t have time to work out what’s being said, he has to keep an eye on the situation.

He tries to maneuver into a better position.

The night vision dulls colors but that’s definitely a red hoodie. They’re skulking in the shadows, hiding behind any cover they can find, on guard but never thinking to look up. One hand is wrapped around the cloth-wrapped handle of a steel baseball bat. Just one lone straggler, separated from the pack.

Bruce’s fingers twitch. They don’t even know they’re in danger…He could just pick them off and no-one would know.

“One guard, definitely a Red Hood.” He tells the comms. Two voices cut in, both telling him to hold back, to be careful, not to rush in.

A gunshot cuts through them all. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the _familiar_ sound seeming to echo like it’s right in front of him. The Red Hood fumbles their baseball bat and runs in the opposite direction from the sound. Bruce lets them go, he’s already heading towards the sound.

“Shots fired, I’m going in _now.”_ Bruce barks into his mouthpiece and cuts off the sudden babbling rush of voices as he turns it off.

The second shot rings out before he touches the ground and he is _running_ , feeling every second weighing down on him. The air itself seems to be trying to hold him back as he vaults the rough fences made of shipping containers and other detritus of industry. He dives through the narrow gap between a pipe and a wall and into a corner of courtyard.

The night guard lies curled in a puddle of his own blood with his back against the railings, spotlighted by the harsh factory lights. A bloom of blood shines surreally bright against the white of their shirt. The kid in the red hoodie lies on their side in a growing pool of blood. Their shoulders heave as they struggle to breathe.

“Put pressure on it.” Bruce barks at the guard as he lands next to the kid. They pull their hood down to hide their face as he lands but Bruce doesn’t even glance at it.

“Show me the wound.” He orders and the kid is too scared and has lost too much blood to think of arguing. A firm voice was all they need. They withdraw bloodied fingers from the wound and Bruce cuts open the fabric around the wound site. More blood flows out, turning the faded red of the hoodie to a near black holding in the poor lighting.  It hasn’t breached anything major, thank gods, sepsis was always a threat with gut wounds. Bruce cleans and bandages the wound and leaves orders to keep pressure on it and stay still.

“The cops are on their way, you _will_ be treated. Do not resist arrest.” Bruce orders. The hooded figure cautiously nods.

Bruce turns to the night guard who has been watching with an expression of mild amusement on his sallow face.

“Tending to the rat first huh?” He says and grits his teeth against a wave of pain.

Bruce notes the pale cast to his face, the beads of cold sweat on his forehead, and the greying of the hairs at his temple.

“Don’t want him dying before trial.” Bruce replies. “At least you know how to hold a wound properly.

The night guard laughs in a dry, rumbling wheeze.

“’s not my first gunshot wound.” He says.

“Show me.” Bruce orders and the night guard moves his hand aside.

It is looking bad, a chest wound that has thankfully not collapsed a lung. He scavenges the guard’s id card for a makeshift occlusive dressing. While Bruce does his best to keep him alive the night guard lets their head hang back.

“Told them they need more than one night guard, I told them.” He coughs the dry rumbling cough again. “’s too many blind spots…”

“Stay still, help is on the way.” Bruce orders.

“I didn’t mean to get ‘m in the gut, they jumped me.” The night guard babbles, his eyes losing their focus. “And they just left ‘m there. They went...” The night guard tries to raise his hand to point. Bruce grabs it and forces it back down.

“ _Stay._ ” He orders darkly and the night guard stops moving.

Bruce leaves them behind as he ducks in through the open door.

The air here is thick with chemical reek hazing the air and sharp contrasts between the stark industrial lighting and the deep shadows. Bruce swings up into the pitch-black shadows of the dormant machinery that hung skeletal from the ceiling. He slips from shadow to shadow with the lights underneath him blinding those who might look up. The walkway echoed with the sounds of footsteps on grated metal as he homed in on his prey. Shapes moving cast long shadows under the factory lights. Against the grey scaled metal and the faint green glow of bubbling chemicals the red hoodies were a violent splash of color. Three of them; a scout ahead, a guard behind, the one in the middle watching the windows.

Bruce becomes hamask and it is beautiful. If his life had been a movie, the soundtrack would have started playing Ave Maria, he thinks as he slips into his animal mind and drops from the darkness.

A gun was a useful weapon from anywhere between five and fifteen feet. Anywhere outside of that range it was nowhere near as effective as people thought it was, especially if you were a frightened teenager that had stolen their father’s gun to look big. He charges straight at them and ducks under the panicked bullet that streaks past his head and disappears into darkness. He drives a fist into the shooter’s stomach and hears the breath whoosh from their lungs. The Bat follows up with a smack to the neck that knocks them out and the shooter collapses into a limp pile on the ground.

The Bat turns to the other guard, caught by surprise partway through drawing his own weapon. He sees the fear glinting in the eyes hidden by shadows of the hood and feeds on it. The Bat swoops before he can fire and knocks the weapon from his hand. Once they hit the ground the Bat loses interest in them. These were not Owls that tore and burned, they were not predators here. They were of his territory, as much as the tall stone buildings were. He turns and the third one sees him through the shadows.

He runs so the Bat chases. The metal walkway rings under his panicked footsteps but the Bat treads silently on the ringing metal. The air here is a thick chemical fog, smoke curls its pale fingers around his feet as he darts from the shadows like the night itself given form.

His prey slips on the grated floor and tumbles. The metal rings underneath them as they scramble to their feet. They cling to the railing behind them, their chest heaving as they struggle to catch their breath. The hood, faded from wear, has fallen over their face and covers everything but their mouth.

“S-Stay back.” They demand and the Bat can’t tell if the hitch in their breath and the shaking of their shoulders is laughing, crying or the start of an asthma attack.

They inch their foot slowly backwards and reach for their pockets. Metal corroded by fumes that should have been replaced a long time ago creaks a low, mournful howl and gives up the ghost. The Bat is already moving, diving forwards as the bolts pop free and sink into the toxic sludge. The unanchored struts screech as they shift and begin to bend under the weight.

In under a second the metal bows, then breaks with a final violent snap.

The Bat leaps. The Red Hood falls.

His screaming face is the last thing Bruce sees of him. The hood is covering his eyes but his mouth is stretched grotesquely open in a scream that seems silent as the Bat's body tries to turn the energy of the sound into momentum.

Time seems to slow to a crawl between heartbeats as the Bat reaches for him. The Bat’s feet leaving the grating as he leaps down after him like a falling angel.

The space between their fingers is less than an inch but it feels like a mile as the Bat tries to force his body to fall faster.

He feels rather than hears the impact of the Red Hood hitting the chemicals, the sound seems to start in his bones and spread outwards as the spray of chemicals rise up to meet them.

Flecks of the shining green liquid hit his outstretched hand and roll over the cheek of the mask and the distance between their fingers becomes nearly nothing even as the green swallows the boy to the waist.

The Bat reaches for him and something catches around his neck. His momentum halts and he swipes at the Red Hood’s hand. His outstretched fingertips brush the Bat’s, then fall past them. The shining green liquid swallows him whole, for a brief moment he manages to fight to get his head above the surface. As the Bat is pulled upwards the Red Hood sinks. The last part of him to sink beneath the chemical sludge are his teeth still silently screaming as the green liquid fills his mouth.

The Bat's back hits the walkway and he feels his heartbeat thud hard in his chest as time rushes back in. He scrambles to get to his feet and leap back in when an arm holds him back from the vat. He fights it with more desperation than efficiency as Jason pulls him into a tight, restraining hug. Bruce bites his arm. It doesn’t leave an impression but it makes his point.

“There’s nothing you can do Bruce, they’re already dead.” Jason has to tell him.

“He might not be…” Bruce protests. He fights to be free, too desperate to be anything but denial.

“A drop of this stuff bleaches skin; he was immersed in it. He would have died as soon as it hit his lungs. He’s gone.” Jason says as he tightens his grip. “As will you be if you dive in after him. You can’t save everyone Bruce. It hurts but you can’t save everyone.”

“I...” Bruce nearly sobs. “I have to see the body at least...I need to know who he was.”

“Don’t torture yourself over this.” Jason tells him.

“But…” Bruce sobs. “Everything that happened...it is all my fault.”

Jason slaps him. It is more sound than pain but it shocks Bruce into silence.

“Christ, I can’t believe you’re being so self-obsessed!” he says with feeling. “People’s pain is their own, you can’t just steal it for yourself! What they do is their choice and their consequences to face, taking all of that on yourself is unbelievably selfish!”

“I…” Bruce starts to say _something,_ even he doesn’t know how he would have finished that sentence before Jason silences him with a look.

“You can’t just _take_ someone else’s trauma.” He says seriously. “ _Never_ try again. Let it go little soldier.” Jason reassures him. “Let it go. Focus on the people who can still be helped. You’ve got a shot kid and an injured night guard that still need your help, alright?”

Bruce manages a nod.

“I didn’t think you were sticking around.” He says as his eyes refocus on Jason’s face rather than the bubbling chemicals.

“I’m not, at least not formally, I was listening in on the comms and wanted to check you’re going to be okay.” Jason checks his pupil response. “And good thing too. If I wasn’t here you’d be taking a chemical bath right now.”

Bruce draws in a sharp hiss of breath. Jason snaps his fingers in front of Bruce’s face.

“Focus. The dead are dead, but there are others that aren’t dead _yet._ Are you going to let them die or are you going to pull yourself together and save them?” He says.

There’s a pause as Bruce draws in a shuddering breath of the chemical filled air while his eyes stare blindly at nothing. The trembling in his shoulders stills and he seems to pull himself back together.

Jason pats him on the shoulder.

“I was never here, alright little soldier?” Jason adds.

“Right…” Bruce says, turning away and looking out of the factory where red and blue lights have started to reflect off the reinforced glass. “Right.”

When he turns to look back at him Jason is gone. Right, no looking back, focus on the present. He takes a deep breath of the chemical scented air and swears next time he will do better. Time to focus on the people he _can_ still help. He walks forwards back into the light.

The tank is drained and the bleached pale corpse zipped in a body bag. At the GCPD the stiffened body is labelled a John Doe and left in the morgue. The next morning the drawer is empty. The GCPD, figuring one of the new heroes must have taken it as evidence in a case, do not report this. Time shifts on towards morning.

**Author's Note:**

> This one ran a bit long so I've divided it into parts, but what other case could I put Jason's backstory in?


End file.
